9:00 AM
by Brunette
Summary: The morning after the night Gretchen meets Beni. [one shot]


_Author's Note: So this is...really drabbly. I mean, wow. Mostly, I'm trying to get over some writer's block, and now we have...this. Not much of a plot, and not really any of the infamous Beni-Gretchen banter, but...here it is. I appologize for the rather...uninspired title. Usually I'm better at these things..._

_Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own the character Beni Gabor from The Mummy. I do, however, own Gretchen._

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**9:00 AM**

"Let's have a drink."

"But it's nine in the morning."

He stared at her with sleepy, bloodshot eyes, and she stubbornly refused to stare back at him. She heard him clear his throat, felt his rough, dirty fingers run over her arm absently.

"So?" he persisted half-heartedly, his words delayed by the thoughtless seconds.

She raised her eyebrows, reaching a hand up to run her fingers through her knotted hair. "So it's nine in the morning. Nobody drinks now."

"I want a drink now."

She forced herself to glance over at him, and held back a grimace. Had the previous night, in all actuality, happened? Had she seriously, in all reality, slept with _this_ man for money? Two years ago, she would have joked that no sum would be worth a night with the likes of him. And now...a disappointingly small fee apparently compensated her pride.

"Maybe you should get some coffee. You look hung over."

He blinked, toying with one of the numerous chains around his neck. "I am hung over. But you don't have any coffee, do you?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "No."

He might have smiled, but it looked as if straining his face that way would hurt it. "But you do have a bottle of whiskey in your--what you call it? Your drawers."

She shrugged her shoulders painfully. "I don't know. Maybe."

He looked up at her again for a moment before groaning and resting his head in her lap. She glanced down at him in irritation, and reluctantly touched his narrow shoulders.

"What's your name?" he mumbled. She scowled at the ceiling.

"What do you want it to be," she retorted mechanically. He shook his head, his greasy hair sending disgusted goosebumps over her thighs.

"No. What is it really?"

Her eyes flashed dimly at him. "What do you care?"

He twisted slowly onto his back, staring up at her persistently. "I want to know where you are from."

"I'm American."

"That doesn't count," he scoffed. "Americans aren't anything. I bet I can guess where your family comes from."

She sighed loudly. It was too early to argue with him. "Gretchen."

"Gretchen what?"

She shook her head; what difference did it make if he knew her name or not, anyway? She supposed she was safe-guarding against his return, but something in her gut told her he'd be back, anyway.

"Gretchen Fagan." He kept staring at her, waiting. She gritted her teeth. "Fine. Gretchen Magdalene Fagan."

His high, screetching chortles filled the room for a moment, and Gretchen had to look away from his amusement-distorted face to keep from hitting him. He hadn't paid her yet, after all.

As his laughter breathlessly subsided, he pulled himself to a seat, scratching his head. "Your papa is from the north part of Ireland, and very religious. Your mother is German, and misses her home."

Gretchen's brow furrowed suddenly, her spine straightening. She swallowed difficultly, gawking at him unabashed. This strange, pale and scrawny weasel of a man was suddenly borderline fascinating.

Her mouth gaped for a wordless moment before she sputtered defensively, "My mother's only half German!"

He shrugged, turning to lean over the side of the bed and pick up his pants. His fingers dug absently for a cigarette. "I always miss mothers by a generation."

"How the hell did you know that?" she demanded, gripping his shoulder and wrenching his eyes back to hers.

He shrugged again. "I am gifted."

She snorted. "You're _gifted?"_

He bobbled his head affirmatively. "I know people."

"You _know_ people?"

His eyebrows jerked up as he slipped a cigarette in his mouth. "Is my accent that bad?"

Gretchen drummed her fingers against her thigh impatiently. "Just tell me."

He smirked, breathing out a trail of smoke. "How about this. I tell you, and I get last night for free."

Her eyes widened. "Not a chance."

With another easy shrug, he started to pull himself from the bed. "Well then I am not telling you."

Gretchen scoffed angrily. "That's really childish."

He held back a laugh, but didn't say anything as he pulled his pants over his hips. She glared, crossing her arms over her chest in frustration. She refused to look at him, staring stubbornly at the opposite, cracked wall, even though she could feel his irritating, amused eyes examining her. Suddenly, he was leaning over her, his crumpled shirt in one hand and his cigarette hanging between the fingers of his other hand.

"Then how is this," he whispered hoarsely. "I tell you, and you will kiss me."

She wrinkled her nose, glancing at him for barely a second. "You're disgusting."

His shoulders rose benignly, allowing it. "Yes, but I do not sell my sex for money."

Gretchen's stomach churned, and her throat contracted with an uneasy swallow. He grinned, slowly lowering himself to sit next to her.

"Fagan is a north Ireland name. I know because this mick in my garrison, Hamill, used to always tell the same story about this whore in his village, Maggie Faggaen. Gretchen is an awful German name, and only a German would want to use it. Magdalene is the whore from the Bible that was going to be stoned, and your papa picked it because he is a Catholic, and only the Catholics care which Mary is which."

Gretchen clenched and unclenched her jaw, looking down at her dirty fingernails. "So how about you?" she wondered quietly.

He sighed, leaning against the brass headboard. "Beni Gabor."

"And Beni's short for Benjamin, right?" she supplied matter-of-factly. He scoffed.

"Gretchen, you are not gifted at all."

Her mouth gaped in insult, but he kept talking.

"It is short for Bence, which is a Hungarian name for...how do you say? Winner, somebody who wins...Anyway. Gabor is French, but it does not count because it is a made-up name. I do not know my last name."

She blinked, watching him with detatched interest. "You don't know?"

Beni sighed, twisting his fingers around an unraveled thread in her sheets. "No." He forced a nervous little laugh. "Maybe that is why I care about everyone else's."

Gretchen ran her tongue over her lips uncertainly, not really looking at him. "Yeah...that's weird. I mean, not knowing."

He shrugged, reaching a hand up to touch the side of her face. She strained a half-hearted smile, and conceded to his terms.

**end.**


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